The Lost Thrill

I grow so weary, someway, of all things

That love and loving have vouchsafed to me,

Since now all dreamed-of sweets of ecstasy

Am I possessed of: The caress that clings—

The lips that mix with mine with murmurings

No language may interpret, and the free,

Unfettered brood of kisses, hungrily

Feasting in swarms on honeyed blossomings

Of passion's fullest flower—For yet I miss

The essence that alone makes love divine—

The subtle flavoring no tang of this

Weak wine of melody may here define:—

A something found and lost in the first kiss

A lover ever poured through lips of mine.